He lay there for another few seconds before an acute pain burned in his foot. With each pulse beat, the sensation spread. It throbbed. Mike didn’t want to look.
He rolled over and scanned the Whaler. There were two men aboard; both appeared lifeless. One was in a pool of blood between the pilot’s seat and the steering wheel. The other was lying across the port gunwale, a large spear piercing his lower leg like a skewer through a kabob. The spear, though, was angled up through the man’s leg. The rear end, line attached, poked through the back below the knee. The tip of the barbed, angry part of the spear protruded through his leg above the front of his knee.
The man’s skin was gray where there wasn’t blood. There was a lot of blood. Too much. Mike wondered if he’d hit an artery.
By striking the man in the leg, he’d tried to avoid killing him. Mike didn’t want to kill him. It looked as though he had despite his intentions. The exsanguination brought his mind back to his own thumping pain and he hazarded a glance at his injury. He expected his foot was gone.
Mike exhaled through puffed cheeks when he saw the wound. It wasn’t good. It looked like his pinkie toe might be missing. But the shark had misjudged its strike. The entire blade of the fin was gone. Four of Mike’s five toes protruded from what rubber was left. He was bleeding, but it wasn’t life altering or threatening as far as he could tell.
He sat up, the rock of the boat forcing him to brace himself and pulled the flippers from his feet. Yep. He was missing a pinkie toe and some of the outer edge of his foot. He’d need stitches and he might walk funny, but he’d survived a shiver of sharks.
The adrenaline leaked from his body and the pain intensified. He laid back on the deck and looked up at the blue sky above. He closed his eyes and called out to his friends on the other boat. He exhaled and sucked in another calming breath of the damp air. He’d had enough of the sea. They had to get on with their lives at some point. Now was as good a time as any.
An hour later, he was back on the Rising Star inside the salon. Barry and Brice were siphoning fuel from the Whaler. Betsy was the lookout.
Miriam sat next to him. She was capping a bottle of iodine. “You’re lucky,” she said. “You could have been killed.”
Mike was looking through the porthole toward land. His mind was elsewhere.
“I think you’ll be okay,” she said. “The stitches should hold if you stay off your foot for a few days.”
Mike ran his tongue along the backs of his teeth. He could taste the chalky and bitter remnant of the painkillers in his mouth.
“Where are you right now?” she asked. “It’s not here.”
He didn’t respond. He heard the words, but they didn’t register.
She touched his leg and squeezed gently to get his attention. “Mike.”
Mike swallowed and blinked. “Sorry. Just thinking.”
“Clearly. What are you thinking?”
“I think it’s time we go ashore.”
CHAPTER 2
MARCH 4, 2033
SCOURGE +154 DAYS
HOUSTON, TEXAS
Rufus Buck rubbed his foot. Although the scar that ran along his ankle was faded, the keloid was wider and longer than his original injury. It stretched from between his big and second toe to his calf. Some days the joint ached more than the memory.
He was in a surplus military Humvee he’d bought three years earlier after leaving the Army. It guzzled fuel, which wasn’t a good thing in the post-apocalypse of the Scourge, but it was a tank. He’d welded the angled blade of a snowplow to the front of it and it could power past most any jam of stalled vehicles, light barricades, or people who stood in his way.
His foot was on the dash to the left of the wheel. His boot was off. The rank odor of sweat and leather permeated the spartan cabin of the truck. He liked it. It was better than most smells these days, which only served to remind him of war and his time in Syria thirteen years earlier.
It didn’t matter how much time passed. The scent of war clung to those who served. It was an unrelenting brew of blood, excrement, sweat and nitroglycerin.
The brake lights on the truck in front of him dimmed and the driver accelerated through the checkpoint. An armed soldier waved Buck forward and he sat up in his seat. He dropped his bare foot to the floor and used the other to tap the gas above idle. He stopped when the soldier held up a hand and motioned for him to roll down his window.
Buck appraised the man with the HK416 rifle in his arms. It was the same model he’d carried in Syria. Before the camps. Before the Scourge.
The soldier was wide-eyed, clean-shaven. Buck wondered if the kid could grow a beard. He looked fifteen. Lean features, a prominent Adam’s apple, rosy cheeks.
Two other soldiers moved around the back of the Humvee, checking under the tarp that covered extra diesel fuel and camping supplies.
The kid put one hand on the open sill. “Where you headed, sir?”
Buck handed over his identification. “East.”
The kid’s expression tightened. “Yes, sir. Everybody on I-10 is headed east. But where exactly are you going?”
“Does it matter?”
The toy soldier stood up and stiffened. He checked over his shoulder to his left. Then he stepped back from the door and waved for Buck to get out of the Humvee. “Please step out, sir.”
Buck sighed. He noticed the kid’s superior up ahead, a lieutenant who didn’t look much older. He narrowed his gaze at the kid. “Is there a problem?”
The kid squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “I asked you a direct question, sir. You failed to give me a direct answer. Now you’re questioning my order to step out of your vehicle. If you fail to comply, I’ll—”
Buck shouldered open the door and raised his hands. “No need for that. I’ll comply. I’m just not sure why I need to be specific about where I’m headed.”
“Wait here, please,” said the young soldier.
The kid walked to his superior and showed Buck’s identification to the lieutenant. Both men shot him simultaneous overtly serious looks.
Buck suppressed a smile. He could tell by the starch in their uniforms neither man had seen combat. This posting was as close as either of them had gotten to a war zone. They did not understand who he was. Other than his name, they were oblivious to the sacrifices he’d made on behalf of an ungrateful nation that left him to struggle with his health, employment, housing and other basic human needs.
Both men marched back to him, the superior holding Buck’s identification pinched between his thumb and index finger. Unlike Buck, the lieutenant hadn’t enlisted. He was ROTC or National Guard. He went to West Point. Regardless, he didn’t work for a living like enlisted men and women. Not like Buck had. Straight out of high school. On a bus. In basic. Into battle. His promotions came from doing his job downrange.
Buck stuffed his hands deep into the loose pockets of his cargo pants and balled them into fists to keep himself from throwing a punch. The cuffs of his black denim jacket bunched around his wrists.
The officer glanced at the identification as he approached. “Mr. Buck?”
“Yep.”
“I’m Lieutenant Gregg. Private Quinn here tells me you’re not being cooperative. Is there a reason for that?”
Buck leaned a hip against his Humvee. He used his boot to scratch the scar on his bare foot. “I’ve answered his questions. I’m cooperating.”
The officer used Buck’s ID to reference the line of cars and trucks behind him. Then he handed it back to him. “All you’re doing is holding things up. If you could be specific about where you’re heading and what it is you’re doing, we’ll let you be on your way.”
“As I told your E-1 here, I’m headed east. I’ve got a meeting with some important people. It’s not any of your business why I’m going where I’m going. I wasn’t aware this was a roadblock. I just thought it was a checkpoint to control the flow of traffic in and out of the city, look for any obvious signs of contamination or
bad intentions.”
The soldiers exchanged glances. The officer jutted his chin toward Buck. “You active duty?”
Buck said, “Nope.”
“Veteran?”
“Yep.”
The private laughed. “That explains the Humvee.”
Buck raised an eyebrow. “What explains the Humvee? What are you trying to say?”
Behind them, the driver of a Honda SUV honked his horn. The officer held up a finger.
Private Quinn lowered his chin. “Nothing I just—”
“You just what, E-1? Thought you’d make a joke at my expense? You don’t know me. What are you, eighteen? You drink warm milk at night and get the lieutenant here to tell you bedtime stories about what it’s like to pull the trigger.”
The private’s already red cheeks flushed crimson.
Lieutenant Gregg stepped forward. “Look, he didn’t mean anything by it. He’s doing his job, as am I. Our orders are to find out where everybody is headed and why. It’s simple. If you can’t—”
Buck pulled a hand from his pocket and started to open his denim jacket. He did it slowly and deliberately, keeping eye contact with the officer. He withdrew a folded piece of paper and handed it to the officer in the same flicking motion the lieutenant had handed him his ID.
The officer’s eyes flitted between Buck and the paper in his hand. He unfolded it and studied it. His face tightened and relaxed. He ran a thumb across an embossed circle at the lower right corner of the page.
Private Quinn glanced over at the paper. “Is that legit?”
Lieutenant Gregg swallowed. “It is.” He handed Buck the piece of paper.
Buck folded it and tucked it back into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. “Good enough for you?”
The officer nodded. “You can move along. It would have been easier for all of us if you’d shown Private Quinn that from the start.”
Buck stepped to the open door of the Humvee and climbed into the driver’s seat. His left boot was on the passenger’s seat on the other side of the large center console. He shut the door. “E-1 didn’t ask for it, so why would I show it? Y’all might want to get more specific-like with your questions. Otherwise you’re going to keep making things tougher than they need to be.”
Buck rolled up the window without waiting for either man to request he do so. He put the truck into gear and pressed the accelerator with his booted foot. The Humvee’s six-point-five-liter V8 engine responded with a growl and he motored through the checkpoint. In the side-view mirror behind him loomed the skyline of what was once the nation’s third largest city. Like other congested metropolitan areas, it had taken the brunt of what the Scourge dished out. Houston was a shadow of its former self. All of Texas was. In a few short months, the republic had devolved into a Wild West replete with disparate bands of survivalists, homesteaders and fortune hunters. It was a pity. It was also an opportunity for a man like Rufus Buck.
CHAPTER 3
MARCH 4, 2033
SCOURGE +154 DAYS
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
Gwendolyn Sharp applied the coral lipstick then blotted the excess with a paper towel. Studying herself in the mirror of the women’s restroom, she adjusted the bun atop the crown of her head and straightened her suit jacket at her waist. She plucked the collar of her silk blouse from under the jacket and flattened it against the lapels. The end of the world wasn’t an excuse to look unkempt.
The scientist politician ran her hand under the faucet in front of her. It clicked and a steady waterfall streamed into the porcelain sink. Another wave of her hand produced a dollop of cleanser, which she scrubbed vigorously over the backs of her hands, between her fingers and onto her palms.
Careful not to get any overspray onto the cuffs of her jacket, she rinsed her hands clean under the warm water. She stuck wet fingers onto a neat stack of paper towels and lifted some into her palms.
Gwendolyn dropped the bunched towels into a circular opening in the marble counter and checked the mirror again. She stretched her eyes to look at the whites. They were veined with red and despite heavy makeup underneath them to mask the dark circles, her eyes betrayed her exhaustion.
It had been weeks, months perhaps, since she’d last enjoyed a good night’s sleep. Even her growing reliance on hypnotics didn’t help. The best she could do was three hours and that was frequently restless and non-restorative.
She pressed her lips together, gave herself a final check and left the restroom. Her watch told her she was three minutes late for her meeting. They would wait. They always did. No point in beginning without her.
Her shoes padded softly against the solid flooring that ran along the wide corridors of the facility’s third level. The sneakers were in contrast with her pantsuit, but there was no law that suggested Gwendolyn Sharp had to sacrifice comfort. Nobody looked at her feet anyway.
At the end of the hall she pressed a key card to a magnetic pad. A red light turned green. She manually entered a code on an adjacent alphanumeric pad and pressed a thumb onto a biometric scanner. The door clicked and she pulled it toward her.
Inside the room was a large oval conference table with a half dozen chairs surrounding it. On each wall was a large flat-panel monitor, each of which showed the same four-panel display. A serious-looking man or woman whose images were transmitted via a secure video feed filled each panel. They represented the World Health Organization, The Hague, NATO and a Texas epidemiologist affiliated with the Center for Surveillance, Epidemiology and Control of Influenza. The epidemiologist was new to the team. Morel had insisted. Gwendolyn didn’t like the idea of another scientist being added to the group. It made no sense to her. She’d fought his inclusion and lost.
Gwendolyn took the last remaining seat and inserted a device the size of a kidney bean into her right ear. She tapped the device and a pleasant tone indicated it was powered up.
“Now that Dr. Sharp is here, I guess we can begin,” said Colonel Whittenburg of the US Army chemical corp. His tone didn’t hide his annoyance.
Whittenburg was no-nonsense. A relationship with him was give-and-take. Gwendolyn gave and Whittenburg took. The only give he’d ever offered Gwendolyn was at their first meeting inside the hangar at Dobbins Air Reserve Base five months earlier. She’d hijacked his ride into Atlanta and he’d acquiesced. Since then it was his way or the highway, without the benefit of a ride.
Flanking Whittenburg was his pair of aides, Major Bailey and First Lieutenant Lowe. Gwendolyn was seated between Dr. Charles Morel and CDC epidemiologist Dr. John Treadgold. Treadgold was a quiet man who chose his words carefully. He spoke only when it mattered. When he offered a hypothesis, an opinion, or thoughts, it carried weight.
Gwendolyn wished she could be as disciplined as Treadgold but didn’t envy his lack of ambition. He seemed content to slave away in a lab or in front of a computer, a life path diametrically opposed to hers.
She nodded a greeting to everyone around the table. “Thank you for waiting. I had urgent business. Should we begin?”
A woman on the displays spoke in English with a thick Dutch accent. She sighed heavily before and after she spoke. She represented The Hague. “Please,” she said. “I have other places to be.”
Gwendolyn chuckled. “Of course you do,” she muttered under her breath.
The woman leaned forward, her face filling her quadrant of the screen. She glowered into the camera.
Whittenburg leaned back in his chair and put his palms flat against the glass-top conference table. He sighed, perhaps to mimic the impatient woman on the screen, or because he was as irritated with Gwendolyn. “We all have places to be. I would strongly suggest, however, nothing is more important than this meeting. Somehow, by the grace of all that is good and holy, we’ve pried all of the players away from their urgent business.”
He shot a look at Gwendolyn that clarified the sigh. It was a warning that she’d best be on her game. She nodded back at him her understanding and began.
“We are at an impasse,” she said to the room and those joining via teleconference. “It’s no secret to any of us here.”
“Or to the five and a half billion people who’ve died in the last five months,” added the Texan. “This is the worst humanitarian crisis in the history of—”
“Humans,” Gwendolyn cut in. “We know. How’s the weather in Houston?”
“What does that have to do with this?” snapped the Texan.
“About as much as your opinion.” Gwendolyn eyed Whittenburg then Morel. “Remind me why someone from the Texas Medical Center with a background in the flu is involved with—”
Whittenburg slapped his hands on the glass. “Cut it out. I know we’re exhausted. We have few, if any, answers. Puerile bickering isn’t going to save any lives.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” asked Treadgold.
The room was silent save for the steady low hum of the electronics and the whoosh of the air conditioning. Even the four on the monitors were silent. They all knew what he meant.
Since Gwendolyn had been recalled from Kiev, there was little research, at least at the CDC, into finding a vaccine or any viable mortality-reducing treatment for the infected. What she and Morel suspected was true. The survivors working at the highest levels of global government and the affiliated power brokers who clung to the shadows, had made a decision to let the Scourge play out.
The world’s population was too much for the planet. The Earth was dying.
By 2030, there were over eight billion people. Half of them lived in places with limited or no access to fresh water. Human life expectancy dropped given that most of the new population was in less developed parts of the world. The extinction rate of plants and animals was happening at a faster rate than since the end of the Cretaceous period sixty-five million years earlier. Surviving species found their habitats disappearing.
Sharp increases in crime led to fewer true democracies or representative republics. The vast majority of recognized nations fell under autocratic rule. Civilized, or even somewhat civilized, societies hung by a thread across much of the planet. Only a few westernized countries, including the United States, managed a semblance of their historic freedoms and rights.
The Scourge (Book 2): Adrift Page 3
